Sunday Evening, July 7th, 2022 - Bergamo
The Atalanta representative stood just past baggage claim, holding a sign with their names. He was young, maybe twenty-five, wearing a black tracksuit with the club’s logo.
"Demien? Luca?" His accent was Northern Italian, sharper than what they were used to in Florence. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝙣𝙚𝙩
"That’s us," Luca said.
"Welcome to Bergamo. I’m Stefano, the youth coordinator. The van’s outside."
They followed him through the airport. Other passengers glanced at them—two young men with football bags always drew attention in Italy.
The van had Atalanta’s crest on the side. Stefano loaded their bags while they climbed in. Three other young players were already inside, all looking tired.
"New trialists?" one of them asked in English. He had a German accent.
"Yeah," Demien replied. "You?"
"Same. Got here this morning from Munich." The German extended his hand. "Felix."
"Demien. This is Luca."
The other two introduced themselves—a Brazilian striker named Gabriel and a French defender called Mathis. All trialists, all arriving for the same two-week evaluation.
The drive took forty minutes. They left Bergamo’s city limits and entered Zingonia, where Atalanta’s training complex sprawled across several hectares. Even in the fading evening light, the facilities looked immaculate.
"This is bigger than I expected," Luca whispered.
Stefano parked near a modern building. "This is the youth residence. You’ll stay here during the trial. Meals are in the main building, and training starts tomorrow at eight sharp."
Their rooms were simple but clean. Two beds, two desks, and a small bathroom. Demien and Luca were assigned to share, which felt like a small mercy.
After dropping their bags, Stefano led them to the cafeteria for dinner. That’s when everything changed.
The cafeteria was already full of players. Twenty, maybe thirty young men were eating at long tables. Conversation died when the five trialists walked in.
Demien felt the eyes immediately. They weren’t curious or welcoming—they were calculating.
"New faces," someone said in Italian, not bothering to lower his voice.
Stefano gestured to the food line. "Get something to eat. The coach will address everyone after dinner."
They loaded their plates in silence. The food was good—grilled chicken, pasta, and vegetables, everything an athlete needed.
An empty table sat near the back. The five trialists naturally gravitated toward it, outsiders sticking together.
As they ate, Demien noticed how the established players sat in clear groups: the defenders at one table, midfielders at another, and forwards scattered between two more. Nobody looked over directly, but he could feel the assessment happening in peripheral glances and lowered voices.
A player from the midfielder table stood to get water. Tall, maybe six-foot-two, with the easy movement of someone who’d been in the system for years. As he passed their table, he slowed just slightly.
"Trialists?" His tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t warm either. It was professional.
"Yeah," Felix answered.
The player nodded. "I’m Riccardo. Central mid." He looked at each of them, cataloging their faces and builds. "What positions?"
They went around quickly. When Demien said "Central midfield," Riccardo’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture. A slight straightening of the spine.
"Good luck tomorrow," Riccardo said. His tone stayed neutral, but his eyes lingered on Demien for an extra beat. "Coach Rossi doesn’t ease anyone in."
He walked back to his table. One of his teammates—shorter, stockier—leaned over and said something. Riccardo shrugged, but his response made both of them look back at the trialists’ table.
"That seemed... loaded," Felix observed.
"He’s sizing up competition," Demien said quietly. "We’d do the same."
Gabriel pushed his pasta around his plate. "How many of us do you think make it?"
"Does it matter?" Mathis asked. "We can’t control what they decide. We can only control how we play."
Before anyone could respond, a door opened at the front of the cafeteria. A man in his forties walked in, wearing an Atalanta coaching jacket. The room went quiet.
"For those who don’t know me, I’m Gianluca Rossi
Rossi’s eyes found their table. "To the trialists—you’re here because we saw something in you. Prove us right. To everyone else—competition makes us better. Embrace it."
He left without another word.
"At least the coach seems fair," Gabriel said quietly.
Across the room, Riccardo had returned to the midfielders’ table. He wasn’t looking at them, but his teammates were listening to something he was saying. Professional interest, not hostility—but Demien recognized the dynamic. They were discussing the new competition.
After dinner, the trialists returned to their rooms. Demien lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling while Luca showered.
"That wasn’t too bad," Luca said when he came out, toweling his hair. "I expected worse."
"The worst comes tomorrow. On the pitch," Demien replied.
"You think they’ll target us?" Luca asked.
"Not target. Test," Demien corrected him. "They’ll go harder in challenges, press tighter, and make everything difficult. It’s natural selection."
"Great." Luca flopped onto his bed. "Just what I needed."
Demien didn’t respond. He knew what tomorrow would bring—hard tackles, tight marking, every drill turned into a battle. The established players would make them earn every touch, every yard, and every breath. He pulled the blanket up. Tomorrow, the test began.
Monday, July 8th - Day 2
The morning session started immediately with fitness tests: the Beep test, sprint intervals, and agility ladders. The established players went hard, trying to set a relentless pace the trialists couldn’t possibly match, but they didn’t know about Demien’s enhanced stats.
On the Beep test, players started dropping after level 12. By level 14, only eight remained, and at level 15, just four were left—Demien, the tall midfielder Riccardo, and two wingers. As level 16 began, Riccardo’s face was purple, his breathing ragged; he stumbled on the turn, stopped, and rested his hands on his knees.
Demien, however, kept going. His base stamina stat wasn’t elite, but combined with David Drinkwater’s experience in pacing himself, it proved more than enough. He finished at level 17, the last man running, and Coach Rossi immediately made a note on his clipboard.
Sprint drills came next, forty-meter dashes timed electronically, with the average hovering around 5.2 seconds. Demien’s high acceleration launched him off the line, clocking in at 4.8 seconds, the fastest time of the day.
"Again," Rossi ordered, looking skeptical. "That can’t be right."
The second attempt was 4.75 seconds, causing the established players to exchange immediate, stunned glances. Who exactly was this kid?